


A study in consent (They're Lesbians, Harold.)

by lesbianophelia



Series: you are my best friend/and i have always known you (lesbian!everlark AUs) [3]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, District 12, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Genderbending, female Peeta, they're lesbians harold, victor!Katniss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: "I’m not as good at words as she is. But she is beautiful, and even though that’s hardly the most important thing, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever get the chance to tell her. She studies me for a moment and then nods slowly, as if accepting this. That tug that’s been pulling me closer wins out, though I’m not sure she’s quite sure what I’m aiming for when I close the distance between us completely. She’s happy to hold me. Of course, she’s happy to hold me. But she’s a little surprised when I arch up to kiss her. Still, her mouth yields under mine, as pliant as ever. Once I’ve hooked my arms around her neck, she gets the idea to put a hand on either side of my waist and tug me in closer. She sighs, the breath a happy little huff against my mouth, and then makes another attempt at saying my name. I let her get away with it, this time."(In-Panem AU. Femme!Peeta. Victor!Katniss.)





	

No one’s ever asked what I wanted. Not in the Community Home. Not in the Capitol. Not at the seemingly dozens of meals I had to attend since I was crowned Victor. No one has. Not other than Peeta.   
  
The bread she threw me that day in the rain wasn’t enough. The money from the mines dried up. The winter stretched on and on when the spring was supposed to begin, and eventually I was picked up from school by a teacher with a long gray braid and scowl lines who told me, her voice the sort of harsh that comes when you’re trying not to betray emotion, that I wouldn’t be going home.   
  
No one asked me if I wanted to live in one of the Community Homes. No one asked which of the buildings I wanted to stay in. I ended up in the biggest and darkest of all of them, squashed into a room with four other girls, two beds, and an old pot set up in the corner of the room to catch the leak in the roof. They set in another cot, the day I showed up, and stuck me and another ex-Seam girl who was getting into fights in one of the other Homes into the bedroom. 

 

Calla was a few years older than me. I never quite got a clear answer on what happened to her family. One day, when a younger girl asked, her expression softened. But then one of the girls we shared a room in shushed her group of friends, trying to listen in, and Calla narrowed her eyes and suggested that we all -- as a group or collectively, I’m still not sure -- should go fuck ourselves. Not that I wanted to get into the sort of fights she managed to get in when no one was looking, but I always sort of admired Calla.   
  
Not that I was surprised when she was reaped.   
  
Another thing we weren’t asked? Whether or not we wanted to sign up for tesserae. You’re meant to be able to apply for rations for each member of your family, but that’s, of course, a little muddy when you’re an orphan. Why should we be less able to sell our relative safety just because our parents died? Of course, when you’re cramming twenty kids into one house, you can’t just let a kid get twenty one portions every week. That would be way too much food. Almost enough to survive on. 

 

Calla wasn’t the first Community Home kid I’ve seen reaped. Not even the only one who got sent off to die while I lived there. Since she was in the same grouping of kids as I was, they gave us the chance to say goodbye. Most of the others scoffed, but I agreed to go. I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe I was just curious. Either way, it’s not like there was a line to see her.   
  
I was sixteen. Calla was a month away from being eighteen. Nearly free, but so far from making it out unscathed.  We’d been sharing a bed for the better part of the last five years, but had barely managed to meet each other’s eyes until she looked up and saw me standing just inside the doorway.   
  
“They send you in here to see who gets my stuff?” she asked dryly.   
  
“I. . .”   
  
“Just make sure Ainsley doesn’t get that dress I like, all right, kid?”   
  
When I didn’t respond, she grinned, this weird feral thing that didn’t come close to being convincing.   
  
Calla was moved to another room once Prim moved in with me. They knew better than to try to separate me from the baby I had grown so attached to. I had seen Calla in passing, since. It’s not like there was a lot of room in the house we lived in. Had wondered, once or twice, what had happened to earn her those bruises.   
  
I didn’t realize until a couple of years later, when Peeta Mellark grinned at me and I felt this strangest little tug in my stomach, that I had _liked_ Calla. I was so angry the night that she died. I was so horrified. If anyone in the district -- in the country, had enough fight in her to win the games, it was Calla. But she died two days in.   
  
I didn’t.   
  
I made it through the games, somehow. Made it all the way home. No one asked me what I wanted to wear for the seemingly endless amount of event that they’ve dragged me to. I’ve only been a victor for -- I don’t know. A week or two, I suppose. There are so many lost days between when I was fished out of the arena and when I had my big debut on the stage for the recap. But in the days that I’ve been vertical, I’ve been to so many fancy meals. Made the rounds at party after party, talking and laughing and thanking the donors. Thanking them for pledging more money than anyone in Twelve would see in a year for every day I survived. Thanking them for cheering me on as I struggled and hunted and killed and --   
  
There’s something so different about this, my homecoming banquet. 

  
It’s held in the Mayor’s mansion, for one. A place that I’ve only ever seen through the back door while my father and I traded with the Mayor. It’s bigger than I ever thought it would be. There are three Undersees living in the mansion and a few people on their staff, but there’s no good reason for them to have more room for just the few of them than the Community Home does for all of the children with no families.   
  
I watch my reflection in the mirror while Octavia, a member of my prep team, laces me into a satin gown. Madge Undersee’s room has a full length mirror against the wall. The frame is nothing too ornate, but it’s nice enough to distract me from the pain as she coils my hair up onto the base of my scalp, one pin at a time. She leaves a few wisps out. “To frame your face,” she says, nudging my hands out of the way when I try to swipe one of the strands out of my eyes. I can’t do anything with my hands. I’ve already learn my lesson about trying to hike up the neck of the dresses they like to put me in. Once my face is coated in a loose powder and my eyes have been lined with black and my lips have been swiped at with coat after coat of red, they let me head down the stairs and into the dining room, where everyone rises at the sight of me. 

 

Everyone. Including more Peacekeepers than I’d ever care to see in one place, and the Director of the Community Home I’ve lived in for the last six years. For the first time, I don’t have to look away when she meets my eye. So I don’t. I hold her gaze, unforgiving.   
  
No one else from the Community Home seems to have earned an invitation to my homecoming meal. The man who teaches my grade is sitting towards the end of the table, talking quietly to a couple of merchants. There’s the butcher, and more Peacekeepers than I’d ever care to see in one place.   
  
And then there’s Peeta. The baker’s daughter. She’s sitting there, just beside the head of the table, with a squirming Prim in her lap. _Prim_. I dive towards them, manners be damned, and Prim, who has somehow gotten bigger since I’ve been gone, reaches for me. Once she’s safely in my arms, she nestles against my chest and I rub my nose along her hairline. They gave her a bath. For the first time in her little life, they used soap that’s actually meant to smell good, rather than just to get a line of orphans sufficiently clean. She had a birthday while I was in the arena. Or it was one of the lost days, after they fished me out. She was one when I left, but now she’s two. “ _Kah_ niss!” she says happily, and my heart shatters at the realization that this can’t be this first time she’s managed the _ss_ at the end of my name. I wasn’t there to hear it.  
  
She was just a baby when they brought her to the Community Home. Someone somewhere knows the name of the woman who had her. But she’s half Seam. We don’t know which half, but I’m pretty certain her mother was a merchant, and that’s why she ended up in the Community Home. None of us know what her name was when she was born. She wasn’t left with anything. A Seam midwife delivered her -- both when she was born and to the Community Home. But she wouldn’t tell anyone who the parents were.   
  
The week she arrived, I was on childcare duty. I was the one to spend those first few nights with her in the nursery, so she was only disturbing the other little ones when she woke crying. I was the one who tried to sing to her. The first one to try to come up with a name for her. _Primrose_. She was named for the flowers Dad used to bring home for Mom at the end of long days in the woods. It caught on, eventually, but since I was the only one who came when she cried, and I was the one to name her, I was the one who wound up with her sharing my cot. I was the one who stayed home from school to care for her when she was sick. And I’m the one who gets to bring her home tonight, since I told Caesar Flickerman and the rest of the country how much I love her.   
  
“Hi, baby,” I murmur. “You got big while I was gone, didn’t you?”   
  
I press a kiss into the side of her face, which earns me a little giggle, and sit down. I do a terrible job of pretending like I’m paying attention during the meal. The fact of the matter is, even though the champagne we’re toasting with is probably more expensive than a month’s worth of meals in the Community Home, it tastes like nothing.   
  
Peeta is still there, sitting beside me. They’ve got her all dolled up too, though her face isn’t caked in even half as much makeup as mine is. But she looks lovely as ever, her long blonde hair curled and held back with a pale pink ribbon that brushes against the back of her neck. Of all of the sets of eyes on me, hers somehow seem to be the most important.   
  
“Hi,” she says softly.  
  
We don’t have much of a chance to speak during the dinner, since everyone seems to have questions for me that are much more pressing than her unspoken _are you all right?_ But she manages to say enough with the gentle press of her shin against the satin skirt of the gown Octavia fastened me into.   
  
“Is someone walking you home?” she asks at the end of the evening, looking at me for all the world like she thinks the answer to this might not only be yes, but might be that I wouldn’t prefer for it to be her even if it was going to be someone else walking us home.  
  
_Home.  
  
_

My heart gives an excited little flutter at the word. I haven’t had a home in two years. More than that, even. And though I managed to stop at the new house in the Victor’s Village for a moment before they whisked me to the mansion to get ready for the night, I didn’t really consider the fact that it might, at some point, be _home_.   
  
But it could be a place where Peeta walks me and Prim. A place where Peeta stays with us.   
  
I raise my chin, just a little. “Only if you plan on staying,” I return.   
  
She hears the rejection first. The condition. And then she gets it, and flushes a gorgeous pink, eyes finding the ground. “I think that can be arranged,” she says.    
  
. . .   
  
Octavia and the rest of my prep team have to leave straight from the end of the meal to catch their train back to the Capitol. A Peacekeeper I don’t recognize offers to walk me home, but Peeta makes a show of linking her arm with mine and assuring him that she can handle it.   
  
It isn’t a terribly long walk from Town to the Victor’s Village, but it’s made about three times longer by the fact that we keep having to stop to pass Prim back and forth between the two of us. I was once Prim’s favorite person in the world, but it would appear I have some competition, now. I’m not quite awful enough to let that bother me, but I’m damn close. Peeta is wearing flats, but I’m still stuck in the heels they strapped me into earlier. At least, I am until we reach the Victor’s Village. As soon as my house is in sight, soft light spilling out from the porch, I kick off the heels and let them dangle from my fingertips. The door is locked, which I guess makes me feel a little better, even though I looked very stupid trying to push the door open in front of Peeta. She’ll barely meet my eyes, though. I think I really managed to embarrass her, earlier.   
  
I drop them inside the doorway and watch as Peeta sets Prim down. They’ve already furnished the house for me, if you could even call it that. From what I’ve seen so far, absolutely none of it is anything that I’d have picked for myself. The door opens right into the living room, which is mostly bare, save for a stark white couch that faces the fireplace. The floors are dark brown and polished, and Peeta seems to be fascinated by them. My escort assured me that I can order whatever I’d like, and they’ll deliver it for me. Maybe I’ll give Peeta the catalog and let her pick whatever she wants. 

  
“What do you think?” I ask, kneeling down beside Prim. “This is our new house.” And then I’m so caught up in it, the fact that we live here. That we never have to go back to the Community Home. And Peeta never has to go home, either, if she doesn’t want to. Prim wriggles around in my arms when I scoop her up into a hug, not sure exactly what I’m doing, and I plant a kiss on the side of her face, the way I know will earn me a giggle.   
  
“So I -- may have lied,” says Peeta, I try to think of what she’s said since I’ve been home, but there really hasn’t been much. She mentioned that she’s missed me. That’s the only thing I can think of. I swallow hard and give her a curt nod, scooping Prim up, half to keep her from wandering too far, but mostly just because I want something to hold against my chest.   
  
“They -- they wouldn’t let me see her,” she continues. “They kept saying it was kin only. And Gale was trying to tell them that he was your cousin. But that wasn’t good enough, even after you told Caesar that you were going to adopt her as soon as you got home.”   
  
I swallow hard.   
  
“You and I both know we don’t favor each other,” she says. “And I didn’t -- I didn’t . .  Want them to think we were related, anyway. Because, you know . . ..”   
  
“Spit it out,” I demand, my voice a little too rough. 

  
“You _know_ why I didn’t want them to think you were related,” she insists.   
  
I want desperately to tell her to leave, but I can’t. I settle on a glare, but she doesn’t see it, because she’s so focused on the shiny wooden floor of my new house.   
  
“I should get her to bed,” I begin. “It’s past---”   
  
“I told them you proposed to me in the Justice Building,”   
  
Prim demands that I let her down, so then Peeta and I just stand there, watching each other. “Why?”   
  
“I just -- I couldn’t leave her there alone. And it’s the only thing I could think of. I knew you’d come home. But -- until you did . . .”   
  
I take a step closer to her and her eyes find the ground again. For a minute.  
  
“No, you didn’t.”   
  
There. Her eyes flash up to mine, a little panicked.   
  
“You didn’t know I was going to come home,” I say.   
  
She wets her lips. Goes to protest, but that’s no good at all.   
  
“No one did,” I say. “I didn’t.”   
  
“I did,” she rasps. “I knew.”   
  
I want to tell her not to lie to me, but there’s something so earnest in those blue eyes of hers that I believe her. I believe her more than any fancy Capitolite who pledged more money than I’d see in a year for every day I survived in the Games.   
  
“I should get home,” she begins. “Mom will --”   
  
“I don’t care about your mother.”   
  
Her eyes flit up towards mine, clearly surprised. Maybe she thought I would be angry with her, but I’m not. How could I be angry with this girl who cares so much for me that she would lie to see Prim, the only person in the world I’m sure I love? And here she is, feeling guilty for a lie that was told entirely for my benefit.   
  
“You should stay.” I say.   
  
“Yeah,” she says, and then gives me a little smile. “Yeah, I should.” 

 

“I really do need to get her in bed,” I say, nodding down towards Prim. “You’ll stay, won’t you?” I ask. I’m about to amend that I’d let her go after Prim goes to sleep, but she tells me, softly, something that sounds a lot like _always_.   
  
  
  
It isn’t hard to convince Prim to go to sleep. The bedtime ritual in the Community Home was simple. They’d tell us to go to sleep and we would. So Prim doesn’t fight me when I lay her down in the bed, because she’s never been given the option. I still use her as an excuse to hide in the room for a while. This one bedroom, filled with a crib for Prim as well as a dresser, a closet, a massive bed, and a writing desk, is as big as the one that we shared with six other girls at the Community Home, us each squished two into a cot. I wonder how she’ll sleep without me there. Even while I was gone, they would have put another girl into the bed with her. There’s no way they saved my place at the Community Home -- I was either gonna die in the arena or come home and move to the Victor’s Village, and there was always going to be another hungry child that needed that bed.   
  
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see her as she watches me. She wouldn’t have been kept from seeing the Games, but she’s far too young to understand why I was gone. Or that I was coming back at all. My heart clenches, and it’s all I can do not to scoop her up out of the crib and hold her as close as I can. Peeta knew I was coming home, but Prim didn’t.   
  
“Can I say goodnight?” Peeta asks from behind me. The light spilling in from the hallway is soft, so all I can really see is her figure. Blonde hair fanning out around her shoulders hazily, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, the other arm wrapped around her middle protectively.   
  


It’s as if she really believes there’s a chance I might tell her no. 

 

I can’t help but to watch as Peeta crouches down in front of the crib, speaking to Prim in a voice so gentle that it sounds almost fragile. I can only hear bits and pieces of what she’s saying, but it seems to be comforting nonsense. There’s this whole bit about how if Prim gets a good night sleep, she can help Peeta make cookies tomorrow afternoon. And then Peeta straightens just enough to lean over the edge of the crib and plant a kiss on Prim’s forehead.   
  
I’m not sure why it’s so crucial that I leave, but it is. 

  
  
Peeta finds me in the bedroom, sitting flat on my ass as I pull out what seems like every piece of clothing that they stuffed into the drawers in search of something that I’d actually consider sleeping in. The sleeping clothes are all flouncy -- or worse, sexy. There’s a lacy black one that looks so itchy it makes me squirm just to think about wearing it. Especially because they stripped me of the measly amount of hair that managed to grow in the arena sometime while I was under.   
  
Wordlessly, I pass her a nightgown. It’s one of the least offensive. A dress made of lightweight white fabric. Considering who made it, it’s probably either fireproof or designed to burst into flames if the wearer spins around in a circle, but it seems harmless enough. She thanks me for it, and I go back to searching through the drawers, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door closing behind her.   
  
“Should I just . . .?” she asks.   
  
“Yeah, sure,” I say absently, and then I feel more than hear the _whoosh_ of her dress hitting the ground. I hear the rustling of fabric as she kicks it off of her feet and then the cotton thing glides over towards me. My cheeks flush hot. I’m in time to watch as she steps into the skirt, but not quick enough to catch any skin that isn’t covered by the dress as she slips it on.   
  
I guess I hadn’t realized how small the straps on the nightgown were. Or maybe they only look small on her broad shoulders. There’s a birthmark there, just to the left of one of the straps, that I’ve never had the chance to see. And her legs, so much longer than mine, are only made longer by the lack of fabric covering them. The skirt of the dress ends a few inches above her knee, much less conservative than the one she wore to the dinner tonight. She tugs hard at the skirt, as if willing it to be longer, and I notice that my mouth feels entirely too dry.   
  
“Does it look okay?” she asks. “I’ve never worn anything so fancy.”   
  
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. It’s -- really . . .”   
  
The nervous smile slips from her face and I swallow hard, trying to figure out how to fix it. 

  
“I should--” she begins, but I don’t let her finish.   
  
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and her face scrunches, just slightly, as if she’s trying to convince herself not to argue with me. I rise to my feet shakily. She’s joked before that my scowl is both terrifying and cute, so I’m not sure which one I’m pulling off when she rolls her eyes at me, but then suddenly she’s serious.   
  
“Katniss,” she starts.   
  
“It’s not the stupid dress, either,” I say.   
  
This earns me a laugh, glorious and breathy.   
  
“You should have heard my mother today, when I was getting ready.”   
  
“I’m glad I didn’t,” I say.   
  
“I tried on every dress in the house before I found one she’d let me leave the house in. And even then, it was because she said there was no helping me.”   
  
I want to tell her about all the clothes I’ve been fitted for, but I don’t want her to think I’m trying to compete with her. “You’d look good in anything,” I say instead.   
  
“Tell that to my mother.”   
  
“I will,” I say. “Stay here. Watch the baby. I’ll go now.”   
  
She laughs again, but neither of us are able to keep it up for very long. There’s something in the air between us that thrums with a nervous energy. Something that draws me closer to her. Something that sort of terrifies me.   
  
“You are.”   
  
I’m not as good at words as she is. But she is beautiful, and even though that’s hardly the most important thing, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever get the chance to tell her. She studies me for a moment and then nods slowly, as if accepting this. That tug that’s been pulling me closer wins out, though I’m not sure she’s quite sure what I’m aiming for when I close the distance between us completely. She’s happy to hold me. Of course, she’s happy to hold me. But she’s a little surprised when I arch up to kiss her. Still, her mouth yields under mine, as pliant as ever. Once I’ve hooked my arms around her neck, she gets the idea to put a hand on either side of my waist and tug me in closer. She sighs, the breath a happy little _huff_ against my mouth, and then makes another attempt at saying my name. I let her get away with it, this time. Stop to take a breath and rest my forehead against her collarbone, where I breathe, heavy and wet and warm.   
  
Her hands, strong and calloused, look for the best place to hold me, and I keep thinking, with every place I feel her, that it must be the best. It isn’t, though. Every press of her hands against my body is better than the last, starting with the hand that curls her fingers into my hair and displaces some of the pins. Then there’s the feeling of her hand grasping at my waist through the dress, which is a flimsy excuse for fabric to begin with. This is the first time I’ve been grateful for that.   
  
For so long, the list of things I’ve wanted has been short enough to count on one hand. Food. Safety for Prim. Safety for myself. Home. And, most recently, to win the games. But now there’s an entirely new entry on the list, and I don’t know what to do with it. Peeta. I want Peeta. I want Peeta so badly that my whole being seems to be aching with it, and I don’t know what to do about that. Peeta seems to have at least some idea of what to do, which I’m more and more grateful for with every new thing she tries.   
  
“This okay?” she asks, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling at the absurdity of the question, but her face is pressed to my chest so she can’t see. I try not to huff in frustration when she stops completely. “Katniss?”   
  
“It’s -- yeah,” I say, breathy.   
  
“It’s yeah?” she asks, and I can feel her grin against my throat. “Is that so?”   
  
And then we’re both laughing, and I feel impossibly happy and warm. Only, that warmth flickers and grows somewhere low inside of me, and that’s only made worse when I take a step backwards and she follows. She keeps her feet close to mine just like the dances Effie Trinket taught me for ceremonies in the Capitol. And then she’s right there, her body pressed against mine, and there’s really nowhere to go, because if I took just one more step back, I’d be pressed against the wall. 

  
She’d leave me alone if I told her to. She’d be off before I got through the words. But I don’t say them, and I don’t want to.   
  
My body gives a shudder, and I drag my lips across her skin because I’m petty and I want her to do the same so I don’t feel so embarrassed. She does. Of course, she does. She’s so responsive to the slightest touch. She shivers and sighs and arches up against me, and I catch myself wondering how else I might manage to get a reaction out of her. The thought is a little startling -- we’ve kissed before, plenty of times, when no one was looking. This kiss is hardly the first to trigger that stirring low in my stomach, but it is the first time I can act on it.   
  
So I do. I kiss her again, greedy and hungry. There’s something about the way that I scrabble against her back with my hands, trying to pull her closer, that makes her gasp. It’s not that she’s trying to pull away and I want to keep her still, but she’s getting to be a puddle in my arms and I think she might just melt into the floor if at least one of us aren’t trying to hold her upright. 

 

She works her hands against my scalp, disrupting the careful architecture of my hairstyle, and then stops at the sound of my answering gasp. “Shit, sorry,” she says, and I can’t find the words in time to tell her that it’s more than all right, so I press my head as far back into her hand as I can. Her fingers don’t so much as flex.   
  
“No,” I say, and then scrunch my eyes shut, cursing myself when her hand falls away. “I mean, yes. It’s good. It’s -- really good.”   
  
“I didn’t mean to ruin your hair.”   
  
“Ruin it. Please.”   
  
That’s all she needs to hear. She pulls loose the pin that’s holding my hair against my scalp, and it falls loose in a curtain of curls and braids. I arch back, trying to keep my body as close to hers as possible while still pressing my head as far into her hand as I can. After having so many Capitolites pulling at my hair, there’s something grounding about the feeling of her hand, big and calloused. They took every scar from my body after the Games, and for a moment I hate how smooth and fragile I feel under her touch. Only, then I really feel her touch and somehow I don’t feel fragile at all. 

 

The way others in the Community Home talked about this, it always seemed -- I don’t know. Not quite like a battle, but like the sort of thing you wanted to have the upper hand in. But I guess I never quite understood the appeal of kissing someone senseless until my lips close around  where her throat meets her collarbone. She gives a half-broken gasp that I can’t help but to echo.   
  
And then. Oh. If I thought she was grasping at my scalp before, that’s nothing compared to the way  she clutches my head, as if trying to pull me in as close as she can. I pull back, fully intent to ask her if this is okay and then tease her about whatever her response is, but she’s better with her words than I am at the best of times.   
  
“So good,” she sighs. And then she tips her head down to look at me. Her whole face is flushed a delicate pink. “Katniss.”   
  
“Yeah?” I ask.   
  
“If -- if you wanted . . .”   
  
“Hm?”   
  
“You don’t have to stop,” she murmurs, her hand skating down to the back of my neck, where it lands, warm and steadying.   
  
“Is that so?”   
  
There’s another little huff, this one more indignant and playful than anything. “Don’t be a smarta-ahh--” she cuts herself off when I return to work at the skin just above her collarbone, capturing it between my lips. Her whole body shudders, pressing towards me, and I can feel the vibrations in her chest as she begins to murmur words of encouragement that make me feel warm from the inside out.   
  
“Oh. Oh fuck. Katniss. That feels -- oh.”   
  
I press a kiss to the skin in parting and feel her shaky exhale on the top of my head. And then she seems to get an idea, because she uses the hand worked into the back of my hair to tilt my head up towards hers. I blink up at her, my bottom lip trapped between my teeth, and she uses her thumb to smooth it away.   
  
“May I?” she asks, and I get a flash of teeth as she grins at my frantic nod. Peeta Mellark is competitive as hell. I’ve known this for quite some time, now, but never realized how it might work to my advantage. Not until her head ducks down and she starts to kiss her way down my throat. I squirm under the touch and she freezes, glancing up at me for my reaction.   
  
“Hey,” she breathes. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. We can--”   
  
“I do,” I say, maybe just a little too desperate. Not that she minds.   
  
“Okay,” she breathes, grinning. “But you have to tell me, okay? If anything’s not okay. Or . . . if anything _is_.”   
  
I feel my eyebrows knit together as I try to work out what she means, but then she’s got her lips back on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and she’s using her hold on me to walk me back to the bed. She hesitates when my knees hit the end of the bed, and I nod wildly against her, dropping onto the edge of the mattress.   
  
  
The bed rocks as she shifts, trying to balance herself on her shins and forearms above me. Only, I want to feel her weight and warmth on top of me. I wrap my arms around her neck, trying to pull her down and she protests for a moment.   
  
“Don’t want to crush you,” she says, pressing a sweet kiss to my jawline. I hear the seam of my dress rip as I use my legs to wrap around her back but it hardly even registers.  
  
“Come here,” I say.   
  
“But--” she tries to protest. Only when I arch up to kiss her, really kiss her, that’s enough to get her to fall forward. She still catches herself on her forearms, “I’m--”   
  
“You’re not going to crush me.”   
  
  
And even if she did I wouldn’t mind. I don’t know how I managed to miss something I’ve never done before as much as I did when I thought I may never get it. Maybe I’ve wanted this longer than I’ve known.  I crane my neck, trying to catch some of her skin, but that reminds her of the task at hand, and she’s back to touching me. She’s stubborn though, and still tries to balance her weight on her knees. This works in my favor when she tries to readjust and one of her knees winds up pressed between my legs just right.   
  
At my gasp, she stiffens and uses those strong arms to try to push herself up and away from me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”   
  
I grasp at her shoulders, trying to hold her in place. I didn’t want her to move before, but now, if the tug low in my stomach has anything to say about it, I won’t be able to handle if she does. “Don’t leave. Don’t--”   
  
“I won’t,” she says, obviously picking up on the desperation in my voice. “Not going anywhere.”   
  
My hips roll against her, straining against the fabric of my dress, where it’s stretched taut against me.   
  
“I’m here,” she murmurs, her hands coming up to play at the hair that’s fallen into my face. “I’m here,” she says again. “Not gonna go anywhere.”   
  
But then she does. I huff in disapproval when I lose the warmth of her body and the pressure of her knee between my thighs. But then I realize what she’s doing. I didn’t see her put the dress on. Didn’t look up in time. But I’m here to see her take it off. She has a moment where she can’t decide which way she wants to take it off -- if she should push the straps off of her her shoulders, one at a time. That’s what she does first, and I see that birthmark again. Only, then she seems to realize that she’ll have to get up if she wants to take the dress off, so she tugs it up over her head. It takes a little bit of fumbling, but then there she is, sitting on her shins in front of me, hair mussed from the way she pulled the dress over her head. She’s wearing a camisole beneath the dress. A white lacy thing that covers from her breasts down to just above her underwear. Her shy smile is breathtaking. I struggle a little to sit up.   
  
“You’re beautiful.”   
  
“Nah,” she says with a little snort. “I was just overdressed.”   
  
“Peeta--” I begin, and she nods towards my gown. I reach up and untie the little bow at the back of my neck. That’s not enough to expose any skin, though. Peeta’s hands twitch towards me, and I nod my consent. She works carefully, worshipfully, to untie each of the knots tied into the corset. The pads of her fingers brush against every exposed millimeter of my back. And then, in a turn that makes me gasp, she uses the very side of her fingernails. She continues like this until I’m shivering under her touch. And then the top of the gown falls away, and I hear the sharp intake of breath when she realizes that I’m not wearing anything underneath the gown. The neckline was too low. I turn around to face her. She tries to say something but I don’t give her the chance. I settle a shin on either side of her thighs and kiss her. There’s another little gasp when I capture her bottom lip between both of mine, and she melts against the headboard. Distracted as she is, she has much better access to me this way. And my hips -- or, well, that greedy hungry ache between them, have a better chance at rocking against her this way. She holds onto my waist as I move against her, the skin burning hot against mine, and whispers things between kisses to my throat, chest, and wherever else she can reach. 

  
She calls me beautiful. Asks over and over again if what she’s doing is okay.  When my hips begin to slow, she reaches a hand down to the skirt of my dress and does this thing with her thumb that has me jolting forward. I catch a sight of her grin. She must be feeling thoroughly impressed with herself. And it’s not like she shouldn’t.   
  
My mouth attaches to her collarbone as the waves my hips have been making come to a crest on her hand. She murmurs something underneath me, and while I don’t hear it, I can feel the vibrations as they rumble through her. Her other hand finds its way back into my hair. And then she’s whispering,   
  
“I’m here. I’m here.”   
  
I fall forward, a noise closer to a sob than anything else escaping me. She hesitates, not sure whether or not she should stop, and I shake my head against her, hiking the skirt of my dress up so far that it fans out over both of us.   
  
She smells like cinnamon and dill. Sweetness with just the slightest hint of spice to it. My gasps are muffled against her sweat-slick skin. “Can I--?” I start to ask, but then she hikes her thigh up, just a little, and I gasp again. “I wanted to -- to touch you. Would that be okay?”   
  
She nods frantically. I can’t say I have no idea what I’m doing. But it’s so different, these same motions on someone else’s body. She seems to be much more sensitive than I am. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know what I’m doing. Either way, she’s not far behind me.

 

  
After, when I’m lying on her chest, a panting shaky mess, she takes a moment to smooth my hair out of my face and onto the back of my head. “You okay?” she whispers, and my watery laugh isn’t proof enough. “Katniss?”   
  
“Yeah,” I say, rolling off onto my side and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Yeah. Thank you.”   
  
She grins. “Yeah. Anytime.” 

 

. . .  
  
  
She isn’t there when I wake but Prim is, curled against my side under the blanket. I don’t know what I expected. That she’d stay, I suppose. That she meant what she said about being here. But of course she left. Of course, she had to go home. Only, that’s not what she said when I asked her to stay before I fell asleep.   
  
I’m simmering with anger, lying there in bed trying not to wake my sister up. I pull the blanket up over my face, which feels so hot with shame, but then I catch the scent of cinnamon and dill that’s clearly from the girl who laid next to me as I fell asleep last night, and I’m torn between wanting to suck in as many greedy lungfuls as possible and wanting to toss the blanket as far away from me as I can.   
  
But then --   
  
There she is.   
  
In the doorway of the bedroom, wearing a flowery dress that I recognize from the box of things my stylist sent for me. It doesn’t fit her right -- she’s a little broad for it, tall even when she’s not wearing a skirt that was hemmed for someone over a foot shorter than her. Her hair is braided down her back, save for the wispy strands that have escaped to frame her face.   
  
Flour. I think that’s what’s all over her. I can see distinct handprints from where she tried to wipe the stuff off on her skirt. She looks over at Prim, who is still sleeping, and bites her lip.   
  
“I can’t figure out the oven,” she whispers. “It’s -- there are so many buttons.”   
  
It takes both of us to figure out how to work the shiny appliance in my kitchen. She’s not used to the buttons, but I used enough similar contraptions in the Tribute Center that I can at least try to help her with it. And then we’re left with entirely too much time while the cheese buns bake.  

 

Well... Not quite too much time. 

 

There’s plenty of kissing to be done. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks. It's... been a while, yeah? I'm ok. I'm alive. I came out this January as a lesbian. I'm dating an amazing girl who wrangled lots of commas away from this fic and convinced me to post it when I mentioned that I might not. A, I am a kinsey six who is 10000% more attracted to Peeta Mellark as a girl. B, I'm considering original lesbian fiction where No One Dies And Everyone Is At Least Somewhat Happy. And C, more City is coming soon. Ish. Maybe?


End file.
